"Has it ever occurred to you," asked Hulme, "that the writing might be of a very much later date--late Stuart, for instance?" "No," replied the Colonel abruptly, and turned away. "I am sure it is earlier than that." I was not the only member of the party who noticed the curt tone of his reply; and when we had all retired for the night I lingered in Lorian's room and reverted to the matter. "Is the late Stuart period a sore point with the Colonel?" I asked. Lorian, who was in an unusually thoughtful mood, lighted his pipe and nodded. "It is said," he explained, "that a Reynor at about that time turned buccaneer and became the terror of the two Atlantics! I don't know what possessed Hulme to say such a thing. Probably he doesn't know about the piratical page in the family records, however. He's a strange chap." "He is," I agreed. "Everybody seems to know him, yet nobody knows anything _about_ him. I first met him at the Travellers' Club. I was unaware, until I came down here this time, that the Colonel was one of his friends." "Edie brought him down first," replied Lorian. "But I think Hulme had met Sybil--Miss Reynor--in London, before. I may be a silly ass, but somehow I distrust the chap--always have. He seems to know altogether too much about other people's affairs." I mentally added that he also took too great an interest in a certain young lady to suit Lorian's taste. We chatted upon various matters--principally upon the manners, customs, and manifold beauties of Sybil Reynor--until my friend's pipe went out. Then I bade him good night and went to my own room. III With that abruptness characteristic of the coast and season, a high wind had sprung up since the party had separated. Now a continuous booming filled the night, telling how the wrath of the North Atlantic spent itself upon the western rocks. To a town-dweller, more used to the vaguely soothing hum of the metropolis, this grander music of the elements was a poor sedative. Sleep evaded me, tired though I was, and I presently found myself drifting into that uncomfortable frame of mind between dreaming and waking, wherein one's brain becomes a torturing parrot-house, filled with some meaningless reiteration. "The riddle of the ragged staff--the riddle of the ragged staff," was the phrase that danced maddeningly through my brain. It got to that pass with me, familiar enough to victims of insomnia, when the words began to go to a sort of monotonous melody. Thereupon, I determined to light a candle and read for a while, in the hope of inducing slumber. The old clock down in the hall proclaimed the half-hour. I glanced at my watch. It was half-past one. The moaning of the wind and the wild song of the sea continued unceasingly. Then I dropped my paper--and listened.